


i try my best to unwind (nothing on my mind but you)

by resurrectdead



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Banter, Denial of Feelings, Feminine Harry, Feminization, M/M, Sassy Louis, Smut, Teasing, Yoga, Yoga Instructor Harry Styles, lots of back and forth and annoyance and hate fucks but god do they lowkey love each other, mild tho? the good stuff, that was actually a suggested tag I'm done for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-12
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2019-02-01 09:17:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12701910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/resurrectdead/pseuds/resurrectdead
Summary: In a haze of deodorant and hairspray, he thinks he pulled himself together fairly alright given the circumstances. So what he got some like, what, a week’s growth worth of scruff maybe, clutching his paper cup of tube-tea like it’s his lifeboat, but. He thinks it’s a good enough excuse for being 10 minutes late.He checks his phone.15 minutes. He’s going to be 15 minutes late to his first yoga class with some dickhead named Harry Styles.or: louis is forced to join harry's yoga class. the class is terrible but harry isn't.





	i try my best to unwind (nothing on my mind but you)

**Author's Note:**

> this is alex's (@louischaos) fault
> 
> the title for this is from [I Always Knew by The Vaccines](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=84no_HITKFo), like basically all my fics are song lyrics but I actually demand you to listen to that one bc I really like it ok, they're very quite nice. this also ended up lowkey being very inspired by [Guru by Coast Modern](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W_vqmBfBwUo) so,, you know,,, there's a link to that
> 
> Edit: when I wrote this I had recently got into healthy habits (like drinking only water, cutting out sugar) and it had changed my life so much for the better. I hadn’t done yoga. I have now and realise the poses they’re doing are far too advanced for a beginner’s class, so, yeah, just so you know; I know. At least I can be ”a human A” now.

It’s one thing being constantly reminded of your apparent unhealthy habits. Smoking, for instance, gets you a lot of self-righteous preaching and ads about various totally-never-heard-of-wow-thanks-for-sharing physiological diseases thrown your way or DMed through social media.

Being signed up to a yoga class because of your apparent unhealthy habits, however. Now there’s a sitcom and a half.

So Louis throws the booklet on the damn floor.

Zayn’s eyes drift from Louis’ face, to the booklet, back to his face. His perfectly groomed eyebrows line with deep concern. “You’ve hurt its feelings.”

Fuck right off.

The booklet was pretty neat looking, he’ll give it that. All serenely blue and shit, with some stock photo brunette lady posing on the front all _namaste_ and what have you. Times and dates (mondays and thursdays, ten appointments) printed in red. The name _Harry Styles_ put as the instructor of the class in cursive handwriting.

The class which, apparently, some-fucking-how, Louis is now signed up to. The class which starts tomorrow at 8, though Louis distinctively never gets up before 10:30. He’ll have to bring his tea on the tube. He’ll have to - _god_. He’ll have to _socialize_.

Louis might need a new best friend. This one has stopped working properly and yes he absolutely did try switching him off and on, but smothering him by sitting on him apparently was not a good method for doing so.

He’ll just have to try again another time.

 

 

Louis is 10 minutes late.

He savoured the warmth of his nice, warm bed for too long, is the thing. Cherished it like it should be cherished because, wow, aren’t beds just lovely? Amazing? What a great concept, especially at bloody 7 in the morning when Louis can barely get his eyes to open.

Then the sun was barely up either, so there was a lot of stumbling around going on, some walking into walls for fear of switching on those blearing lights in his ceiling, might just go blind with them. And then he was nearly out of milk, so he had to sulk. Then he sulked because it was 7:30, and then he _freaked out because it was 7:30 and he was meant to jump on the tube in fifteen minutes_.

In a haze of deodorant and hairspray, he thinks he pulled himself together fairly alright given the circumstances. So what he got some like, what, a week’s growth worth of scruff maybe, clutching his paper cup of tube-tea like it’s his lifeboat, but. He thinks it’s a good enough excuse for being 10 minutes late.

He checks his phone.

15 minutes. He’s going to be 15 minutes late to his first yoga class with some dickhead named Harry Styles.

When Louis bursts through the doors, however - empty cup dropped somewhere along the way and hair a shaggy mess thanks to the wind, probably panting because he smokes, god dammit, Louis Tomlinson does not _run_ \- all that serenely blue is replaced by something more like… red hot. Flames and chaos.

All he sees is backs of heads, all staring at this tall man at the front of the class. Not that Louis can really tell just how tall he is, what with the whole, like, he’s bent in half thing. Bent forward, he is, legs spread wide and holding onto his calves, like a human A or something, brown probably-considered-too-long-for-a-guy ringlets of hair grazing the rubber mat lied underneath him, like.

Fuckin’.

Woah.

If Louis wasn’t already awake from the rushing and the mild panic, he certainly is now. That’s a sight. That’s a very good sight. Louis would very much like to see it from the back, please, can we get a tour?

By the time the door clicks shut behind him everyone has turned to look at him, the man (the _instructor_ , the one called _Harry_ in his booklet) withdraws his arms and places them in front of himself like he’s about to dive into water, straightens himself out slowly. Calmly, serenely. He smiles.

“Welcome,” he speaks, voice dark but smooth. “Grab a mat and have a seat, please.”

Everyone is wearing tight, tight workout gear. Especially this man. It’s _very_ tight, especially in the package area. Is that legal? Is it professional at all?

Louis is in his Marvel tee and black jeans. Louis overdressed.

He quietly grabs a mat and sits down close to the door. 

Harry talks, Harry gestures; everyone listens. Louis can’t listen. He’s still too tired and, well Harry’s very distracting, see. Not with his methods of breathing or how to make your limbs soft and flexible - _oh god_ \- but his face is, because someone so stupidly attractive with such soft, delicious-looking lips really shouldn’t teach a class, should they? Such lack of manners, it’s just outrageous. 

He must zone out somewhere along the lines of thinking of all the other much nicer things he could be doing right now (like playing video games, goddamn Batman’s just there waiting for him back in his apartment to go beat Bane high on TN-1 and shit), because suddenly a pair of long legs with totally unattainable perfect round thighs are right in front of him, then crouching, down to where he’s seated. “You there?”

Physically, yes. Mentally... “Huh?”

“Don’t you wanna try the exercises?” Harry asks, and Louis forces himself to look away from those lips (that look undoubtedly shiny with lipgloss) and instead have a look around the room. People are bending themselves into inhuman positions. What the fuck. It’s like origami, like metal after a car crash.

Louis is gonna need to order like, three McDonald’s meals after just witnessing all this.

“Yeah, so… Listen.” Louis looks into Harry’s eyes, conveying some sort of mock sincerity. “I wasn’t actually planning on, like. Taking part. Just gonna watch you and stuff.” 

Harry’s brow creases. “You know it is a _class_.” He narrows his eyes. “To, like. _Learn_.”

“Mate, my friend signed me up to this. I’m not here by own free hippie will.” He holds his palm up. “No offense. I’m sure you’ve got enough of that for the both of us.” He puts his hands together and bows. “Namaste.”

Harry’s brow creases more. He even pouts a bit. Then he abruptly stands up. “Everyone!” he calls, and Louis jumps out of his fucking skin. “I’ll just, quickly, not to disturb your splendid work - gorgeous figure, Sandra - I’ll demonstrate a new pose for you with this… happy, much willing volunteer.” He stalls, bends down to wheeze to Louis. “What’s your name?”

Louis blinks at him with owl-eyes. “I’m leaving.”

“No you’re not.” Harry grabs his arm and tugs him up, and despite his physique - which is something like, slender and gorgeous, never changed a tyre in his life - the guy’s got some strength. Not enough to pull a grown man up from the floor, mind, but for some reason Louis finds himself standing on his own legs. “Say hi to our special latecomer-”

He makes a dramatic pause and looks at Louis expectantly. Louis looks around the room. “Louis.” Waves. “Hi. Yeah. Sorry ‘bout that, car didn’t start, dog ate my homework, something like that.”

There’s a buzz of light chuckles across the room and Louis finds himself grinning. Harry just rolls his eyes though, tugs him up to the front of the class by his shirt sleeve.

The next few minutes can be summed up with touching, a lot of touching. At least more than Louis finds comfortable with someone so blatantly attractive. Guiding Louis to try to touch his foot behind himself while reaching his other hand up in the air (how in the fuck) or stretch his leg out to like waistline level in some sort of standing split (muscles clearly don’t work like that). There’s a lot of stumbling, a lot of cursing, a lot of on-the-spot jokes that eventually even has Harry cracking a smile before he’s waving him off and muttering to go on back to his spot in the back. Louis returns in triumph.

But Harry then, of course, proceeds to show off some ridiculous pose when he’s first lying straight on the floor, then smoothly rolls his body to throw his legs above his head. He balances on his upper back, talks about listening to your body while his ass is just _there_ and, yep, this is definitely a conspiracy of some sort. Someone definitely wants Louis dead.

Couldn’t they just like have hired an assassin, though? Regular and oldschool. That would have been so much less painful.

He has to go home and have an angry wank in the shower before he can leave for work that day. 

 

 

“And he’s all, that we have to be in tune with ourselves or some other bullshit like that,” Louis rambles, stuffing crisps into his mouth. “Then he went on about diets and drinking water, like first thing after we wake up for our metabolism or summat. And I’m like man, the fuck, I didn’t sign up for this. I mean, literally - I didn’t sign up for any of it.”

“I got the ad in my _mail_ ”, Zayn defends immediately, “and I thought it could be _kinda nice_ -”

“He thought it could be funny,” Liam corrects, cuddling beside the two in the sofa. Louis had gone to meet up with Zayn after work to vent about today’s mistake of a class and a giant puppy called Liam (still mildly reeking from the day’s fireman-training, what a hunk) just happened to so very conveniently also be there. “You called me like, dying laughing. Don’t you remember?”

“Details,” Louis brushes it off. “Listen, he even made me come up to the front of the class, to show off some more positions, right?”

“No way?”

“Yeah. What a dickhead.” He scoffs. “I’ve still got sore muscles, like fuck, what? I didn’t even know legs could bend like that, it’s ridiculous like, what’s up with this gross health trend anyway -”

“Hey,” Liam protests with a pout. “Working out is great for your body.”

“Yeah, yeah. Dopamine and all that. I got you, you do you.” He puts his legs in Zayn’s lap. “Never going back to them crazy people, though. I’m sleeping in next thursday.”

He smirks to himself, proud of the statement. Might even do some victory Tinder-swiping if he’s feeling up for it; might even hit the pub where he works this weekend with the promise of free rounds of shots if he’s in the mood to feel someone up. If he can make it out of the tomb he made out of his bedroom, that is, and maybe do some washing for the first time in about a good three weeks. He leads a great life, after all. Louis Tomlinson, the great. He reaches for another beer.

“Text us if you wanna meet up,” Zayn announces sleepily, leaning his head on Liam’s broad fireman-in-training, I-work-out-six-days-a-week shoulder. “Babe, gimme the remote. What’s on TV?”

 

 

The whole sleeping-in thing never happens because Louis somehow accidentally set his alarm and then it’s bloody 7AM and Louis is bloody accidentally awake, so he curses himself and his subconscious indecisiveness and comes to the plausible conclusion to try to get up and get ready and if that doesn’t work out, he’ll just go back to bed. Nothing lost, nothing won. Nihilism at its best. 

It totally works, though, hair spiky just the way he wants it and soon with a bagel and a tea in his hands, he arrives just in time with grey joggers that almost makes him look fit if you like squint and tilt your head a little and an _almost_ newly washed Black Sabbath shirt.

Who’s he trying to impress, anyway? Who’s he trying to kid?

Harry welcomes him with a bit of a slightly surprised but mostly heart-warming smile (ew, it’s too early for Louis to even try to wrap his head around that sort of kindness) before motioning for him to sit down. The class is nothing but uneventful after that and Louis might just be in a constant state of nodding off and unconsciously trying to badly mimic some poses, but. He tries. He swears he tries so very hard.

In a hysteric state of boredom Louis suddenly thinks he needs more attention than he’s already drawing to himself scoffing in the corner when Harry brings up anything to do with… anything, really, Louis’ such a heckler honestly. So he deliberately fucks a pose up so bad, Harry can’t do anything but notice.

He’s over in about two seconds flat. It's almost as if he was keeping an eye on him the whole time. “Would you like some help?”

Louis clearly didn’t attend God’s little get-together when self control was being handed out.

“Nah, mate, I’m good,” he assures casually, looking around the room at people making themselves into o-shapes, body arching up from the floor while holding onto their ankles. Meanwhile Louis’ just on his back arching his hips a little with a casual expression. “Isn’t this correct? Not zen enough, is it?”

Harry rolls his eyes but Louis is so fond of it, because he completely lacks the ability to look threatening and basically just looks adorable instead. He’s like a kitten trying to hiss. 

He crouches down and puts a hand on Louis lower back, like, _god_ , Louis’ already straining himself to the point of getting his cheeks a little flushed, he did not ask for that to be added to it.

“You need to push up more here, get yourself up from the ground. You’ll feel it in your thighs.”

“I’m already feeling it.”

“Yeah, _more_.” He pats him in the spot, nimble fingers making his shirt ride up so slightly. “Try it, stud. Show me what you can do.”

Unfair. Completely unfair, because Louis cannot turn down a challenge, so help him God.

He tries to mimic the pose which fucking Petra or whatever is doing to his left, but can see in the mirrors covering the walls how he fails completely. He’s just humping air at this point. Why does most yoga poses look taken from an orgy anyway?

“Your muscles aren’t extended enough yet,” Harry muses, moving his hand to Louis’ thigh - _what the fuck_. “We’ll get you there in a few lessons. But you’re actually like, so bad.”

“Thanks.”

“Uh, yeah, no.” Harry’s affronted. “Do you move like, at all? Work from home or something?”

“Just me in my soft office. Meaning my bed. Best place on earth.” Louis is so physically uncomfortable and _Harry’s hand is so big and so close to his dick oh jesus bloody fuck_. “Takeaway. Friends bring me stuff. Sometimes I go to the store but you know, who needs fresh fruit anyway?”

Louis’ just taking the piss at this point and Harry is thankfully catching on. A small smile tugs on his lips. “Don’t like avocado on your toast?”

“I like me a mean guacamole, if that’s what you’re referring to,” Louis replies with mock confusion. “Store-bought, of course. Don’t know those other words you speak of.”

_Maybe you should come over and try it sometime_ , he doesn’t say. _Maybe you should do that lovely pose of yours with your legs spread in my soft office._

He’s not sure if it would have made a difference if he’d said it or not though, because Harry’s smile turns into an absolute smirk then, hand squeezing, barely noticeable, but it’s there. Then he’s moving away.

“Bye, Louis,” he murmurs, returning to the front of the room.

And Louis’s just. In the worst position imaginable with his whole body burning for a few more reasons than is preferable.

And oh, he hates to see him go, but goddamn does he love watching him leave.

After that it’s more uneventfulness and Louis trying to hide his poor attempts behind the girl in front of him, and when the lesson’s over, he’s a mess of aching limbs and a billion curses waiting to be spilled. 

He eventually looks up from rolling his mat up and finds Harry watching him, people filtering out around them. He stalls, arches an eyebrow. “Alright?”

Harry smiles a little. He’s picking at his nail, painted black with a layer of glitter on top. “Why are you here when you don’t want to be?”

Louis straightens up, mat under his arm and he realises he doesn’t for once have a witty response to snap back with, because. Because, mouth large and eyes green, lips pink and cheekbones chiseled, Harry’s just stood looking at him like that, so fierce, so intuitive, and Louis kind of just wants him to-

Dammit, Tommo. Focus.

“Did I say I didn’t?” he questions, casual, placing the mat with the rest. Well, tossing it on top of them. That usually works with other things anyway, like laundry, and dirty plates. “Or was it apparent by my complete lack of mannerisms? My constant state of _asleepness_?”

Harry’s dimple pops. His eyes drift down his body. “Something like that.”

The last person leaves the room, waving them goodbye before the door clicks shut. Louis’s fingers are suddenly itching to do something. To touch. Maybe just a nicotine withdrawal, having skipped his morning cigarette. Maybe something to do with the fact he’s suddenly in a room alone with a very attractive, ridiculously flexible boy.

Louis Tomlinson doesn’t do emotions. He does flings; lots of them, if he's allowed. Takes boys home then watch them leave, doesn't text them the next morning because he just simply doesn't get into dealing with feelings.

But he wouldn’t mind a good hate-fuck. 

His eyes drift down to his cock. Those leggings are clearly too small to withhold such a glorious monstrosity and Louis is so clearly past the point of being okay.

“Where’s your friend that signed you up then?” Harry asks and, despite it being just three days ago, Louis can’t believe he’d make a point of remembering such a petty detail about such a petty student. “Should I be worried?”

Oh. Oh, that’s-

They’re really doing this, then.

“He’s nothing you can’t handle, love,” Louis assures. “Wrap those pretty thighs around him, and I dunno whether he’d die of suffocation or a bit of a turn-on overload.”

Harry looks down at himself with a sudden grin, as if he isn’t well aware how bloody lovely his legs are. “Should do that to you when you’ve been bad, then.”

And, okay, Louis’ breathing. “When have I ever?”

Harry looks up, and there’s mischief in his eyes. “Today.”

And Louis could just give in right there. Presented with the opportunity, never turn down a pretty boy hinting at perhaps sitting on your face for you to leave beard burns all over his thighs, possibly fucking him missionary or maybe even against a wall, should the mood call for it.

Louis wants all of that. So bad, preferably three times a day, every day of the week. But he won’t. He refuses to give in just yet. He refuses to be the one who breaks.

So he walks backwards to the door, slowly, in long strides, never breaking eye contact and giving a smirk at Harry’s face gradually turning into a confused frown. “Bye, Harry.”

And he just sort of. 

Leaves.

 

 

Mark your calendars, people, because the next monday, Louis gets there on time. 

Eleven minutes early to be exact, which apparently renders him the first one there, save for one of the girls occupying one of the restrooms. Even Harry looks a bit sleep-rumpled still, cross-legged on the floor tying his long hair into a messy bun, cream-coloured jumper riding up his tummy to expose tattoos peeking over the waistline of his leggings. 

“Didn’t have your chamomile tea yet?” Louis thinks to ask, dropping his denim jacket in the corner.

Ever the conversationalist.

Harry looks up from under his eyelashes and smiles childishly. “Morning to you too, Louis.”

Louis nods. “Sup.”

He ties an elastic band that’s undoubtedly pink around his hair, nail varnish chipped but still sparkling. “Why, I drink black coffee, should you have to know,” he replies then, simply. “Don’t know who you take me for.”

Louis can’t tell if he’s joking. “Are you joking?”

Harry smiles in a way that’s devilish at best, then gets up from the floor in one swift motion. He walks out of the room and Louis can’t do anything but follow.

Out in the corridor there’s a worn down coffee machine on which Harry makes a show of carefully choosing between all options before landing delicately on the button for straight up black. It fills the paper cup he’s placed underneath to an obnoxious rattling noise. “Don’t like anything else, if I’m honest.” He takes it off the holder. Louis waits. Harry blinks up at him, then he sighs. “And, yes,” he continues, tiredly, “this is better than the ones with stuff added to it.”

“Knew it.”

He smiles as he blows steam off the top. “And I’ll assume you’ve had yours then? Your chamomile tea, I mean?”

Louis points vaguely in the direction of a bin, cup discarded. “Yorkshire, actually,” he corrects. “Sugar-less, for your pleasure.”

Harry snorts. “Right.” He studies the tattoos littering his arms. “You from there?”

“Doncaster originally, yeah, yeah.”

“Could tell from the accent. I’m from around there myself. Holmes Chapel.”

“I’ve been there,” Louis recalls vaguely. He squints. “Are you gonna tell me you like me tattoos, or?” Harry looks a bit like a deer caught in headlights, and Louis can’t help but grin. “Maybe ask about their meaning, you know. I’m not fuzzy.”

Harry smiles that childish smile again, looks around, leans in a little closer. He lowers his voice as if it’s a secret. “I hate small talk.” He straightens back up. “Got distracted by that bird there. Swallow?”

If Louis had his tea right now he’d probably choke on it. “What?”

“Swallow? The bird?” He pokes at it where Louis has subconsciously wrapped his arms around himself in his utter lack of a jacket. “Looks like it, from the tail.”

“Oh! Shit, yeah, probably I dunno really.” _Blowjobs_ , he thinks wildly. _Harry sucking him off. After the lesson, on his knees, watching his gorgeous face from all angles in the mirrors. Would he spit, or would he swallow?_ “Just thought it looked pretty sick.”

“Same,” Harry murmurs when he tugs the collar of his jumper down and, holy fucking shit look at those gorgeous collarbones. They lack an alarming amount of adoring love bites, instead with two birds facing each other inked below them, presumably swallows. 

“So we’ve both got swallows?” Louis ponders aloud. He has to force himself not to reach out to touch them. “Whatever do we make of this information?”

“I’m not one for tattoos having deep meanings,” Harry admits, smirking.

“ _Deep_ ,” Louis repeats absent-mindedly, because apparently he is a child. “Well. If you hate small talk, maybe we should go and… you know, find out if these ones do actually have some sort of symbolism to them.”

“Are you trying to seduce me?” Harry asks from behind his cup, batting his eyelashes ever so innocently. “I don’t even know how old you are. How old _are_ you, actually?”

Louis is a child. “You don’t ask a lady that,” he exclaims, scandalized. Harry punches his arm. “Okay. Ow. Well, since you ask so nicely, I’m 23. 24 in some months.”

“21,” Harry grins. “Turned this year. But I like an older man.”

“I’m not _old_!” Louis screeches, even more scandalized. Harry rolls his eyes through his smirk, and Louis watches as he tosses his empty cup in the bin. “Wait so, there was like. Other ones? You’ve been with older guys?”

Harry puts his hands on his back and walks nonchalantly away from Louis. “I don’t kiss and tell.”

Louis follows him. Kind of has to, what with class starting in like, one minute and all. “How old are we talking? My age? 40? 65?” He tries to keep a few steps behind and not be a giant creep, but it turns creepy anyway because all the while he’s really just following in a trail of the scent of Harry’s shower gel, his shampoo. A flowery sweet perfume and coffee. “Don’t tell me you had a Anna Nicole type romance, I mean that’s sweet and all but, you’re not using some poor old man in love for his money, are you? This why you have all these nice clothes? Lots of hair-beautifying products? Get avocado on your toast?”

Harry stops and turns to look over his shoulder with his hand on the door. Stupidly attractively. “I’m single,” he says, then swings the doors open to greet the heap of people waiting on the floor.

Louis is so fucking turned on by him it’s absolutely outrageous.

The lesson is painful in every way possible after that because Louis pushes himself more than he probably should (he doesn’t get the whole listening-to-yourself bit when his body and mind are just screaming for Harry), and also because a certain lovely boy keeps coming up to correct his poses with excessive touching.

The moment Harry leans over him to correct his other arm’s position, and stops just inches from his face to just look at his lips through half-lidded eyes before slowly leaning away again, is the moment Louis officially snaps.

So. When Harry’s stood with his pretty bum perched atop the table he’s placed his phone on to plug in the aux cable, so he could play some shit serene music as they stretched, Louis comes up to him after class. 

After a much determined walk, during which their eyes never left each other and his whole body buzzed, he leans in around him so that their bodies are just an inch or so from touching. 

He hears Harry’s gasp, a hand suddenly coming up to grip his bicep. Louis is right between his thighs with his mouth by the part of his neck that would make him feel amazing if he’d just let him kiss it a little, when he reaches over, taps his phone, shuffles a random, most recent playlist of Harry’s and _Bye Bye Baby_ of all songs start playing.

A small scoff escapes him. “Ridiculous.”

He leans back, fringe in his eyes but he sees Harry’s deep flush and parted lips, lets his eyes linger there for just a moment, just for the hell of it. Harry’s pretty little throat bobs. Louis just smirks. 

“Have a good day.”

He leaves Harry’s warm, throbbing body he’d love to have wrapped around himself in all ways possible, leaves his big eyes and big mouth opening for words that never come. Sees his thighs close at his knees and how he’s white-knuckling the table before Louis turns his head, and walks out.

_”Bye bye, baby. Baby, goodbye.”_

 

 

“Gotta hit the bed, boys,” Louis announces suddenly on wednesday night.

Zayn and Liam basically almost fall off the sofa in shock. 

“It’s 10PM,” Zayn whispers with a haunted expression and Liam feels his forehead for his temperature.

Louis swats his hand away. “Early mornings these days,” he explains casually, well aware he usually sleeps soundly way into the PM even when he’s got the night shift down at the pub. “Can’t be arsed with feeling exhausted all day.”

“Wait - are we talking about the _yoga class_?” Liam exclaims.

“You’re actually going back?” Zayn demands in his pure, utter disbelief. “Sounded like you hated it there, man.”

“Well you didn’t let me explain,” Louis counters. “Right, so, this guy, this instructor fellow, Harry’s his name, he’s all tall and slender and shit, right? Really unattainably fit and, like. Hot. And he wears these super tight workout clothes and there I was, first day, a slob in jeans. Naturally I was pissed off. But I tried dressing for the part and like, we’re getting kind of close actually. Like literally, so much fucking touching. So thought, you know.” Cheeky wink. “Might give it a go.”

Liam is the first one to break the stunned silence after that. “This Harry guy sounds like a bit of a… _mouthful_.” He wiggles his eyebrows and nudges Zayn, who glares back at him, appalled. Liam furrows his brow at both of them. “What? _Hand_ ful? A _pain in the ass_?”

“I’m not a bottom,” Louis acknowledges casually. “But, yes, you got it. Metaphorically. He makes me want to choke.”

Liam narrows his eyes. Louis smiles good-naturedly.

“Yes, Liam. On his dick. Harry makes me want to choke on his dick.”

At that, Liam makes a small noise of triumph. Zayn looks like he’s having an identity crisis.

(He won’t let them know how he spends every day that isn’t spent with Harry with his chest feeling tight, mind overflowing with thoughts of him, uneasy with missing how he looks at him. It must be unhealthy to be so infatuated by someone. The whole, constantly-horny-and-constantly-feeling-bad-about-it thing has started making him lose a bit of sleep, even, he'll admit as much. It generally feels quite uplifting, though.)

 

 

Louis showers and washes his hair in the morning, because that’s how much of a slob he distinctly refuses to be in the presence of attractive men with pretty lips and long, curly hair. He even has two entire glasses of water with lemon before that because apparently it’s good for you and he's sure a certain lovely boy would approve of that. Crazy. That must be some sort of world record. Where’s his damn trophy?

He also has to listen to _Self Control_ by Laura Branigan on the tube, because Harry takes his damn self control, right? It’s basically his song. (And then it’s _Good Vibrations_ by the Beach Boys, because he’s sure Harry would love that if he likes that one Bay City Rollers song, then he realises what’s happening to him and he shoves his headphones back into his pocket and walks into the building.)

He swears he’s not even that into Harry anymore as he pulls the handle to the studio door, then sees him in his utter glory and kind of almost collapses. 

It’s his sheer jumper being too short, he tells himself. It’s his dick being too big and prominent. 

Louis realises Harry’s looking at him too, across all the people, and all the air is punched out of his lungs for some reason. He plays it off by nonchalantly looking away while yet making it blatantly obvious, studying the ceiling and the corners like they’re so fucking interesting, and when he looks back Harry’s got a grin on his face, flicking his eyes away in mock annoyance.

If the whole flirting and sexual frustration thing wasn’t already painfully obvious, it definitely is now. They’re teasing on purpose. They both want this. It’s just a lucky perk Louis isn’t somehow constantly hard.

Today’s class is a mess of badly controlled limbs and aching muscles (extending, though, but definitely won’t be touching his toes anytime soon) until Harry’s coming up to him. “Need help?”

Louis looks up, feeling tangled like a pretzel. “This is your fault.”

“ _My_ fault?” he smirks.

“Yeah.” Louis sits up, glances at the clock. Just 10 more minutes of this proper hell of hot tension and fierce eye contact. “Messing up just because of you.”

This is not a lie. Louis might be terrible at this whole, moving his body thing, but Harry’s truly distracting today in his peach jumper and loose, unruly hair.

The back of his leggings read _Bite Me_ in pink. Louis would. He’d do more than just bite.

“And,” he promptly continues, still very matter-of-factly, “now you didn’t even ask why, so you’ll just never know.”

“Didn’t really have time to.”

Louis glares. Tilts his head. “Your fault.”

Harry rolls his eyes and somehow looks attractive as all fuck. “Alright.” He gestures to his phone on the table. “Would you like to go queue up a song for stretching, then?”

Louis daringly raises his eyebrows. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” He crosses his arms and wanders off. “Since you hate my choices so much, I mean.” He scoffs over his shoulder, for only him to hear. “Dickhead.”

Oh, Louis would. It’s just that he’s busy internally laughing at Harry being so oblivious he’d think he leaned in around him like that last time to change his god-awful song, and not to get him all hot and bothered just for the laughs. How sweet. How utterly precious. 

Louis wants to take all that innocence and stain it. 

He walks up, doesn’t take long before he’s decided on a real banger. It’s been stuck in his head and it reminds him a lot of Harry, some way or another. Might it be the porn-music-like drums and 80’s bass beat that soon start ringing out in the space as a pleasurable background soundtrack, might it be the breathy chorus that goes _”you take my self - you take my self control”_ , he doesn’t really know. 

What he does know is that he’s made a really good choice. He likes great music, what can he say? But the most pleasure truly comes from watching Harry’s large green eyes, his bottom lip snatched between his teeth, fidgeting as he listens.

(Louis definitely doesn’t stare at his perfect bum, thighs, _face_ through the entirety of the song, nope, no way. It’s not like he wants him to know he dedicated it to him or anything.)

It’s just those 10 more painful minutes before Harry’s calling the class off, thanking everyone for their presence and wishing them a good day. They all filter out one by one. 

Louis lingers. Takes his time, checks his phone, counts the seconds but Harry doesn’t take long, actually. It’s as if it was on the tip of his tongue the entire time. 

“So why was it my fault?”

He looks up from his Twitter feed and sees Harry - oh god. Stretching. He’s just stretching, right, but his body is curved so beautifully, pulling his leg behind himself to stretch his thigh, cock so big and so fucking. _There_.

His mouth waters. It fucking waters, his tummy burning with lust and need, so much need. His voice feels a bit hoarse when he tries to speak. “No reason,” he decides.

He gets up, can’t tear his eyes away. Harry’s tattoos are peeking out and his skin looks so smooth and beautifully sun-kissed. 

So he walks closer.

“Clearly there was something,” Harry prods, eyes following Louis as he slowly crosses the room. “Was I being…” Louis reaches him, leans in when Harry leans back. They lean and lean until his pretty little ass touches the mirror, and Louis is still just an inch apart, invading his whole space. 

His body is hot, slender and lovely, made of toned muscles and soft skin and like, motherfucking magical stardust, or some other shit making him so absolutely lovely and desireable. Louis kind of wants to dig his nails into his plump waist and make him feel better than ever before. Find out what makes him tick. What makes him scream for more. 

Harry wets his lips, utters a tiny contemplative noise before he’s continuing: “... _Distracting?_ ”

Their lips are so close; dangerously close, just small breaths bouncing between each other. Louis is daring him to kiss him. Daring him to break first.

He likes to think they both do at the same time. 

They basically just close their mouths and then they’re kissing, lips locked and Louis’ body pressed against Harry’s. He realises what he’s doing but doesn’t stop, some magnetic pull or something it must be, because instead he just grabs Harry’s bicep and pushes his arm harshly against the surface behind him. The other hand comes up to cup his jaw with his thumb pressed to his cheek. Not sweetly; roughly. Like he’s pissed off, kiss fiery, wet and open with both teeth and tongue.

Harry’s nails on his back speak the same story, the trapped arm just tugging desperately on his white T-shirt. Tugging him closer. Louis is about as close as can be, except. Except he won’t let their crotches touch.

Biology had a different plan.

Harry draws a sharp breath when his cock brushes Louis’ thigh, getting hard, oh so quickly. It’s a sound that goes straight to Louis’ own dick and he lets his hand travel up to pull at Harry’s hair, pulling his face away and he moans when their lips separate. 

Louis opens his eyes to Harry’s furrowed brow, eyes shut with his face flushed. He’s never been so fucking beautiful.

“What’re you doing?” Louis slurs, eyeing him up and down rather hungrily, probably.

Harry’s eyes flutter open. “Huh?” He sounds so gone, so out of it already. “This is _your_ fault.”

Louis kisses him hard again. 

He runs his palm down Harry’s lovely tummy until he reaches the growing bulge in his leggings and Harry whimpers, the most gorgeous sound as his fingers grip him helplessly. He grinds against him and Louis cups him, feels how big he is and, man, is he fucking hung, _god_. 

Louis would like to point it out in one sassy way or another, but then Harry’s arm untangles itself from behind Louis and cups him as well. 

Louis’ hips, embarrassingly enough, stutter, a groan as if he hasn’t been touched by someone else in months escaping his lips as they part from Harry’s. Maybe he hasn’t been. Maybe that’s fine, because that only makes this feel the more amazing.

“God, Louis,” Harry gasps, rubbing his hand up and down and it just feels so good, where the fuck did he get such a talented hand? Does he do hand-yoga as well? 

“Yeah,” Louis replies in a whisper, flicks his eyes down and, oh bugging fuck. There’s a darker spot in Harry’s sleet grey tenting leggings where Louis’ hand is rubbing, pre-cum smeared. “Shit. Look at you, so wet.”

Harry looks down and flushes, hand stopping and instead just _squeezing_. “Fuck. Sorry.”

“No, that’s-” Louis interrupts himself, hand suddenly slipping up and past Harry’s waistband. Harry hitches on a breath and then groans, pretty eyelashes fluttering as Louis wraps himself around his length down his boxers. “You’re wet like a girl, baby,” he husks, thumb rubbing over his cockhead.

That seems to do it for Harry. He puts his head to Louis’ shoulder and whimpers, hips stuttering into his touch. “ _Louis_.”

“Yeah, so wet for me,” Louis spurs on, jerking his hand as much as he can in the restricted space. He brings his other hand up to move his leggings down, finally, Harry’s cock large and pink and _leaking_ in his hand. “Pretty. You’re so, so pretty.”

“Oh,” Harry whimpers, then bites the fabric on his shoulder and whines out whatever the rest of that sentence could have been. And then he comes, and comes, and comes.

Louis is far from close with Harry’s hand still outside his trackies but he savours every moment, Harry heavy on him until Louis is shoving him back, jaw slack and cheeks even redder, glassy eyes set on Louis when he puts his cum-covered hand up to Harry’s face. He lazily swipes his tongue over it and Louis watches in fucking awe, honestly, how is everything he does turning him on?

“Lou,” Harry groans, shoving his hand away. Louis pushes his shoulder up to the mirror again with his clean hand, making him sure of how he’s still in charge, even if he’s sure Harry would like to differ. “Can I blow you?”

Louis nods, any words deemed to sound incoherent should he try to speak them, and he lets Harry go to tug his pants and boxers down. Harry immediately drops to his knees, grabs his dick to which Louis can really only hiss, the contact far overdo and he’s way past being painfully hard, so fuck it. 

Harry darts his tongue out and places it underneath, looks up at him like that, so pretty, so filthy and oh my god, Louis swears he tries to stop himself. He swears he tries. But he thrusts his hips forward.

Harry sputters, though he composes himself, wraps his lips around him and lets Louis fuck his mouth. He’s considerate, though. He’s nice. He’s so close, hands in Harry’s hair as his gorgeous, big mouth just takes him.

“Yeah, yeah, just like that,” he rambles in a hushed voice, Harry’s wet and tight mouth so perfect for him. Some mouths just go so well for some dicks. Some were just made for each other - and what the fuck is he saying, exactly? “Breathe, baby. Can I come in your mouth?”

Harry makes a noise of approval, won’t let his intense eyes leave Louis even as he goes faster, even as he makes him choke a little as spit dribbles down his chin. When Louis comes, he’s not sure what half the embarrassing noises that leave him sound like, but he’s sure it’s all acceptable given his current situation.

He pulls out immediately and Harry holds his hand up to his mouth, like he’s sick or something, and Louis gets a little worried for a second in his albeit very hazy post-orgasm state. But then he’s removing it, opening his mouth and revealing a clean tongue. 

Swallowed. That little shit swallowed his whole load.

“Fuck,” is all he can think to say as he tucks himself back in his trackies.

“Symbolism,” Harry replies easily, tapping his bird tattoo. (Oh yeah!) His voice is rough though, ruined from his cock down his throat, and it makes Louis’ knees a little weak.

He still manages to offer Harry a hand though, pulls him off of the floor. But Harry stumbles - because he’s got majestic giraffe-legs, what a shit example of how to be graceful and zen right - and he bumps into Louis’ chest. Louis automatically wraps his arms around him.

Louis never cuddles a hook-up. But, now, Harry. Little Harry Styles. He proper _beams_.

“I don’t kiss someone that just had my jizz in their mouth,” comes his immediate response to this fact.

Harry frowns. “You made _me_ have mine.”

And then he kisses him again. Louis expects it to be hard and angry, like rebellious. But it’s soft, full and warm, and Louis’ tummy flutters in the strangest way. Must be, like… annoyance. His only capable emotion, he’s sure.

But then Harry’s pushing him away. Their lips separate with a smack and Louis stumbles back with raised brows, hair comically tousled up and pants low on his hips. Harry just leans back, full on minx smirk and he sassily waves his hand goodbye with just his fingers. “See you next time,” he says.

Louis blinks. He retrieves his jacket off the floor, throws it over his shoulder. “Yeah,” he states, walks backwards until his back hits the door and he pushes it open. “Uh. Bye.”

It’s only when he’s left the room he realises he’s still got dried cum on his hand. 

He’s in a general mood of _what the fuck_ all the way home on the tube with his clenched fist shoved deep in his denim jacket.

 

 

After today it’s one five lessons down, five to go. Louis is kind of ready to _go_ , if you know what I mean. Like, go at it. Go at it with Harry’s perky little ass and- yeah. That. That whole thing.

They totally play it off when they see each other. It’s like, three seconds of large, slightly panicked but still somehow passionate eyes, like they don’t know what to do because holy fuck they had _a sexual relation_ just _four days ago_ and then they’re diverting their eyes again. Like nothing. Goes on with the class but Louis keeps glancing up at Harry, and he knows Harry’s glancing back. He knows this, because once they accidentally meet eyes again before they both look away dramatically, and when Louis can’t help but smirk at that he looks up again and sees Harry smirking just the same to himself.

Louis’ in the process of trying to grab his foot from over his shoulder, as if he’s made of actual elastic, when Harry finally comes up to him during his usual round around the room.

“Good shape,” he comments casually.

“You too,” Louis mutters bitterly.

He wonders for a second if they’re back to that now. Louis’ anger and sexual frustration and Harry’s lowkey annoyance with how much his muscles blatantly refuse to work. 

Harry crouches down, corrects him a little. Louis keeps his eyes focused straight ahead and clenches his jaw, lets him touch him however much he wants because, for one is the teacher, isn’t he? Can’t really argue with that. Louis also can’t physically move much for himself, so.

He feels how close he is, warm and real. Harry’s voice is right next to his ear when he whispers: “Can I ride your dick and make the bed squeak really loud?”

Louis almost fucking falls over.

He drops his hold on his ankle, tries to register if his leg maybe snapped off but nope, no agonizing pain, except maybe a bit of a situation in his pants. Pain would have helped that die down a bit. Would it be seen as impolite to jump out the window?

“Fuck,” he wheezes, looks up at Harry who’s just _smirking_ and oh my god when did he actually sign up to any of this? “I don’t like you.”

“Oh?” Harry says in a patronizing voice, shoves gently at his arm. Fucking sexily. He’s fucking flirting again. “See, that’s where I think you’re lying, Lou.”

Louis has no response. Harry tilts his head, like he knows he won, gets up and walks over to the next person, blissfully oblivious and just enjoying the soundtrack of Native American flute music. Louis wants to just die repeatedly.

When class is over and the overly-friendly attendants are done speaking to Harry or each other, Harry’s sitting on his yoga mat and Louis on his. They grin at each other with mischievous glee when they catch each other’s eyes. 

“Think I’m having a bit of trouble with a pose,” Louis says, tone deliberately casual. 

Harry raises a brow. The skeptical expression diffuses slightly as he smiles a goodbye to the last person leaving the room, then he looks back. “And this is _my fault_ , of course?”

“Who else?” Louis questions rhetorically. He gets up off the floor, walks closer to Harry. Harry follows him with his gaze before Louis rounds him, disappears out of his vision, and he leans back against the mirror with his arms crossed. The door to the studio clicks shut. “Do you know of the downward dog?”

Harry pops his lips and nods slowly. “Familiar.”

“Could you show me it?”

Harry hesitates for just a beat before he shuffles up, spares a glance at Louis over his shoulder, and then he’s bending over. 

It’s similar to the first time Louis saw him, except that time he was wrapped in on himself, hands around his ankles. Much less balance. This pose has him with his feet on the ground and his hands planted about a meter and a half in front of them. This pose can handle a bit of movement before it breaks.

Louis takes a step closer to Harry where he’s bent forward, places his hands on his hips. Harry draws a breath, his ass right in front of Louis’ crotch, there to just do whatever he wants with it. “I don’t want you to ride me,” Louis husks, continuing their earlier conversation. He moves forward so his dick presses between his asscheeks. Harry makes a sound like he’s choking back a moan, changing his hand position a bit. “Wanna fuck you like this. Right on the mattress.”

“Oh god,” Harry breathes, trembling. Must be difficult keeping himself up like that. Louis loves seeing him squirm.

He grinds forward, bites back his own groan at the feeling of his dick against Harry’s perky ass, digs his fingers into his skin. Harry’s just breathing shakily and sounding so, so pretty that Louis grinds again, revels in the feeling. 

But they shouldn’t. Not here. No lube, no condom, no window to smoke the after-sex cigarette out of-

So he pulls back.

Harry whines, clearly not pleased. “Oh shut up,” Louis gruffs, spanks him once just for good measure. 

Harry whimpers and his head falls forward. “You- you said you-”

“You want that? Wanna get fucked right on the floor? The door’s not even locked, love,” Louis patronizes. “Get up.” 

Harry does, on suddenly very shaky legs. Louis pulls him in by his waist and his back bumps into his chest, ass against his now semi-hard dick and Harry just chokes on his breath so prettily when Louis’ hand slides up his chest to his throat, he just has to nibble his ear a bit, just because he fucking can. 

“You have plans today?”

Harry’s throat bobs under his hand and his own come grabbing Louis’ arm, not like he’s trying to move him away. Just like he wants to touch him. “No, not… not really, no.”

“Wanna hang out for a bit, maybe? My house?”

“A play date?” Harry asks through a breathy laugh. He grinds back against Louis and Louis bites his neck. “ _Ah_ , yeah, sounds… Sounds great.”

“Think you can make it there?” Louis questions, slides his hand down Harry’s body to cup his big cock through his marvellous choice of leggings for the day. Harry moans and his hips stutter a little, already tenting against the stretchy grey fabric. “Getting a little hot and bothered here.”

“And whose fault is that?”

He puts his hand on top of Louis' and pushes it down, grinds forward into his touch then back against his dick. They both moan, Harry’s head turned to the side so Louis can grab his jaw, wrench him towards him and kiss him filthily.

“I really don’t mind,” Harry murmurs when they’ve parted lips, guiding Louis’ hand to rub his package. “We could do it here. Save the rest for another time?”

“Eager,” Louis tuts, shakes Harry’s head from side to side. 

He lets go of him then, basically pushes him out of his arms. He’s such a gentleman. Harry seems to love it anyway so, whatever. 

“On your hands and knees then. That pose you did so well.”

“That’s not on my knees,” Harry points out hazily, but drops to his knees on the yoga mat anyway. “You want me on my knees?” He shuffles up to Louis, presses his lips to his dick and tilts his head up to him. “Like this?”

Louis clenches his jaw and grabs a handful of his hair, yanks him off him. “Turn over.”

Harry grins but he does, doing a different pose. He is on his knees but his body is slumping, chest touching the floor. This is an actual legitimate pose and Louis is so baffled yoga is even a thing outside of like, BDSM or something. Get yourself some straps, some sort of barrier to hold Harry’s hips up while keeping his upper body down, and… yeah, no. He’s not gonna go there.

(But Louis would love for him stuck in such a contraption for him to make him come over and over until he’s sobbing.)

Louis gets on his knees too, puts his hands on Harry’s ass. Harry whimpers a bit as his hand roam, squeeze and then a cheeky spank. Harry is so pliant, so responsive, it’s kind of driving him a bit crazy just watching him. “God, Harry,” he murmurs, and Harry lightly hums something in response. Louis grabs ahold of the waistband and pulls both his leggings and tight boxer briefs down.

Harry appears to be biting his finger through this, probably looking hot as all hell and Louis can’t believe he’s keeping such a visual from him when he remembers, mirrors. Mirrors all around the walls.

He looks up and, yep, holy fucking shit. Harry’s got his wild eyes focused on him, biting on a knuckle with his cheeks red, a stray curl hanging in his face. Louis stares for a bit, maybe a bit too long, as he wets his middle finger in his mouth and Harry’s eyes widen. Louis smirks, shuffles back and spreads Harry’s ass.

He just slides his finger over his hole at first, sees if he’s into it; honestly they’ve not even had a talk about who bottoms and Louis is truly just assuming. But Harry moans, albeit a bit too quietly. Louis teases him up and down and gets him all wet and nice before he’s bored, sick of waiting, and he removes his finger to shuffle closer with his face instead. He darts his tongue out.

Harry stops breathing altogether.

He grabs his cheeks and pushes in, driven by the sounds Harry makes, the way his body shakes and jerks and pushes back on his face. Louis would say he’s quite an expert in the field of eating out, knows just how much wetness is enough, ready to dribble if it gets the job done, and god, Harry’s noises just make it all worthwhile.

He takes breaks to breathe when he just rubs his stubble over the top of Harry’s ass, kissing and sucking and nibbling then back in, scratching the sore areas he just left behind with his nails instead as he licks and moans, sending vibrations through. He wants to leave his mark, for him to see who’s been there. He wants him to remember who made him feel that good. 

He kind of hopes the redness and the streaks show through the paler pairs of leggings he owns. 

He starts touching himself, pulling himself out of his pants and thumbs the head, letting Harry ride his tongue best he wants as he focuses on himself a bit. Harry seems to notice though and whines when he looks into the mirror.

Louis pulls out, wipes his chin with the back of his other hand. “What?”

Harry’s eyes are on his hand wrapped around his dick. “That’s my job.” 

He even pouts a bit. 

Louis can’t help but snort as he arches an eyebrow. “Is it now?”

Harry buries his face in his arms and whines more. Like he’s embarrassed and can’t express what he wants. Louis kind of has an idea but he’s not going to make it easy for him, oh no.

“I can suck you off,” Harry suggests, tiny and muffled. “Sixty-nine. Can sit on your face, you can-”

“Got it, babe,” Louis laughs breathily. “Got it. Just.” He shoves at Harry’s arm for him to move out of the way then lies down on his back on the mat, leaning up on his elbows. “Climb on, then. Want you to just- yeah. Come on.”

Harry shuffles around, and soon enough Louis has his face full of glorious dick that’s begging to be touched. Harry leans down over his body, massages his hands around his own dick, and Louis groans. “Want me to just, what?” he asks.

“Just… god. Crush me.” Louis puts his chin to his asscheek, leaves another beard burn to admire later among the red welts and bruises. “Sit on my face and let me take you, all sweet and whimpering. Want you to come from just getting eaten out.”

Harry’s dick twitches and he bites his lip through a tiny whimper. 

“Think you can?” Louis questions, doesn’t mean to sound so mocking but, of course. “Don’t have to try, if you can’t.”

“I’m-” He takes Louis dick out of his pants. “I’m so close, just-”

“Wanna know how wet you are, though,” Louis decides then, reading Harry’s cryptic excuses. He strokes his fist along his dick suddenly, smeared with precum and Harry jerks his hips forward, moans so fucking beautifully. “Look at that, Harry. You’re dripping. Could use all of this to finger you with.”

Harry just moans and whines and whimpers but it’s cut off by him taking Louis into his mouth, wrapping his lips tight around him. It’s Louis’ time to moan and he thrusts his hips a little forward, so beyond turned on and ready for his release to just wash over him. 

He jerks Harry’s dick a little more to glorious wet sounds before he’s bringing his hand back, inserting two fingers into him one after the other slowly, slowly but they glide in so nicely with his previous tonguing and the slick wetness.

Harry’s basically _sobbing_ around him as Louis pumps his fingers, aiming for his prostate as he jerks him off with his other hand. “You’re so wet and open, Harry, babe. Never want your hole to close.” He kisses the back of his thigh, quivering a bit; so, so, close. “Want it gaping open for me all the time, but still so nice and tight. Bet you feel amazing. Can’t wait to fuck you proper.”

“ _There_ ,” Harry pulls off to gasp, followed by nonsensical moaning. “Don’t stop, right there, oh god.”

“Hey, me too,” Louis complains, thrusts his hips up and Harry takes him into his mouth again, dripping spit down his length. He jerks him faster, thumps his skilled fingers harshly against his prostate. “You’re so good at that, fuck. So good at sucking me off, wet and open for me, aren’t you? Wanna bend you over and fuck you after every class, rip a hole in your leggings and just fuck you right on the floor.”

Harry’s hips thrust into his hand as he suddenly shoots his load, sobs muffled out but Louis chances a glance in the mirror at his furrowed eyebrow, mouth stuffed with his dick. If he decides right then how that’s the most beautiful visual in the world, who can really blame him?

He seems a bit out of it then so Louis pulls his fingers out, shuffles away. “Pull off, love. I got it.”

Harry unwillingly does and Louis pushes at his shoulder for him to turn over, carefully lies down on his back. Louis straddles his chest and starts jerking himself off.

He’s not planning on coming on Harry’s face, of course not, he’s a _gentleman_ ; but he’s also not going to tell Harry to open his mouth, so like.

It’s his own fault when Louis throws his head back and shoots ribbons over his cheeks and mouth.

When he tilts his head back, he blurts out a laugh. Because Harry looks absolutely blissful, blinking up at him like he hung the fucking moon, face covered in his cum.

That same adorable face distorts into a pouting frown. “What?”

Louis shakes his head. “Nothing.” He wipes his thumb over a jizz-free region of his cheek. “Sorry, love.”

Harry wipes with his thumb too, but to collect some off it then suck it off. His mouth pops off a clean thumb and he smirks at Louis’ large eyes. “You know you even _taste_ unhealthy?”

Louis rolls his eyes and climbs off. He stands up and tucks himself back in his pants, runs a hand through his hair as he squints at himself in the mirror. Won’t offer him a hand this time to get up; that comment was just plain rude.

Harry gets up by his own machine and pulls his leggings up. He looks at himself in the mirror - and proper _guffaws_. “Louis!”

“What?” Louis grins, punches his arm. “It’s modern art, innit? You look gorgeous, if I may just say so myself.”

Harry wipes his face with the back of his hand. “ _Eeww!_ ”

“Right, so that’s my cue for leaving.” Louis retrieves his jacket off the floor. “Need help getting to the bathroom, or? Don’t have an invisibility cloak or anything but, this jacket’s pretty big I guess.”

Harry sighs. “I’m good.” He wipes the last reminiscent of Louis off his face with a tissue conveniently available from a holder on the wall, then looks up at him with big green eyes. “Uh. Right.” Sad wave. “See you.”

“Yeah.” Much less sad wave. “Bye.”

He’s about to leave, hand on the handle and all when something pulls in his chest, like what the fuck. It’s some sort of feeling as if he could do _more_. Like he _should_ do more.

He’s never felt like that before. Like he owed someone something better. Like someone deserved better than how they were being treated.

He turns back, a bit hesitant. “Uh, hey. Harry?”

Harry looks up, doe eyes so hopeful. “Yeah?”

“Got a pen?”

Harry nods, gets the blue ballpoint one off the table where he takes the daily attendance. Louis takes it, then grabs Harry’s arm and pulls his sleeve up.

Five crooked letters and an attempt at a few little neater number digits later, Harry’s looking at his arm in awe as Louis caps the pen. “Text me,” he says, simple as that, checks his phone number now scrawled across Harry’s bronzy skin. “I’m home by nine thirty or something. Don’t have work until five then.”

Harry keeps looking at his arm with large eyes and something pulls in Louis’ chest again. Maybe he’s just getting sick, maybe he’s got pneumonia or some shit - 

Or maybe he just has a conscience. Maybe his heart isn’t actually made of ice, or stone, or spikes and needles and lead; maybe Harry’s just a really wonderful boy that deserves all good things in this world.

“Uh, since that’s not gonna like, wash off for like a week,” he mumbles, thinks about how he’d explain to a parent or even a friend why he’s got a stranger’s name written on his arm like he owns him, “I guess it’s only fair you, you know.”

He reaches the pen over, rolls the sleeve up of his almost tattoo-less left forearm. Blank canvas. 

Harry’s face lights up.

When Louis is on the tube, on his way home for a shower because he probably reeks of sex and cum, he can’t stop tugging his sleeve up and looking at Harry’s scarily neat handwriting under his _given a chance_ tattoo. 

Symbolism. 

Whatever.

 

 

“Early bird gets the worm.”

Harry turns away from the coffee machine with a smile. He’s in a vintagy looking AC/DC tank top with his hair in a bun, suede jacket wrapped around his shoulders like he’s a cold and sleepy yet absolutely gorgeous fantasy princess and Louis feels so fucking blessed, despite it being quarter to eight in the morning.

They’d texted slightly in the days in between, just some banter and “what you doing”s, and a phone call once when Harry was in the supermarket and thought it would be funny to tell Louis a story about what happened to him getting avocados. Something about an old lady reaching for the same one but Louis can’t be sure because Harry was so slow and laughing to himself trying to tell the story in the end it completely lost its punchline and besides, Louis got stuck on a tiny detail. Something happened in Harry’s day that reminded him of him. Something funny happened that he thought to share with Louis, out of all people. 

That Louis should be the one to deserve that smile. 

Harry cocks his hip. “Aw, feeling friendly today?” he asks, mouthing at the brim of his coffee cup. He looks like he’s wearing mascara, but who would actually be surprised at this point? (It only takes Louis breath away a tiny bit as his eyelashes sweep his cheeks when he blinks.)

“Nah.” Louis walks up, wraps his arms loosely around his and presses up against him. Much like a horny creep because, he is. “Meant to say, early bird gets the wood on.”

Harry hums, arches an eyebrow as he looks him down. “The bird would like to think.” He bumps him in the chest with his finger. “You’re having none of my jelly unless you can be nice.”

“Your- oh my god.” Louis buries his face in his hands as Harry snickers. “I’ll pretend that didn’t happen. Right. Thanks.” He straightens up, then is hit like a slap in the face with Harry’s effortless beauty right in front of him again. He nods slowly. “You look nice today.”

“Today,” Harry echoes absent-mindedly, eyes trailing his body still. 

“Everyday, then,” Louis tries. “Just a little extra gorgeous today.” He puts his finger on Harry’s chin to tilt his head back. His eyes just need to meet his again. “Please stop looking at me like I’m a sex toy.”

“I’m not,” Harry states, affronted. 

He does something so stupid then, though. Grabs Louis’ hand from under his chin and takes it in his, intertwines their fingers. Oh, did someone start shooting fireworks? Did Louis pass out and woke up on the fourth of july?

Louis’ hands are a bit colder from having just walked from the underground to here; Harry’s are warm from his coffee. Louis has basically never seen such great portrayal of how he feels about their relationship as that.

Ha. Relationship.

“What are you looking at me for, then?” Louis questions in a murmur, faces close. When is a good time to kiss him in a way that’s not the prelude to a hate-fuck? When will Harry like it the most? 

When has he ever actually considered the other person’s well being as much?

Harry smiles. He’s the one that leans into the kiss first, leaning down a bit, hand holding his cup resting on Louis’ shoulder. It’s just a soft peck but that’s just the thing; it’s soft. It’s lovely. “You’re just kinda nice to look at,” he answers when they part.

Louis immediately kisses him again, deeper, hand squeezing around Harry’s and drawing a breath at his scent. Lemon? Maybe a bit of tropical fruit. Fresh and sweet and he tastes like coffee and the mint gum he’s chewing. 

Louis is in yesterday’s outfit serving rounds at the pub, but he’s doing better. He’s getting there.

Harry’s been inspiring him to be good to himself and honestly, he’s been feeling pretty amazing because of it too. He might have been a mess this entire weekend. He’s usually a mess, by default; he’ll wear the same beer- and tequila-stained clothes, he’ll go a week without shaving or bothering to wash his hair (it’s so much work blow drying it to the position he wants it to be, in the end it just feels so much easier combing it back and calling it a hairstyle; he’s a James Dean daydream and he’s doing you a favour, so deal with it.)

This weekend though, Louis wasn’t his stereotypically messy self by locking himself in and playing video games, gulping down soda and chain smoking his worries away. He didn’t go out with the lads and cause trouble, didn’t try tear the city down. 

Louis was a mess from missing Harry so much, so anxious and fidgety the only thing that made him take his mind off it is pulling the good old hoover out. It had its own mighty layer of dust on it (which he’ll deal with once he figures out how in the hell to undust the one thing that undusts things) and rummaged the entire apartment. Changed the sheets. Had a bath. Didn’t smoke two packs of cigs, actually, just one. 

It’s strange how uplifting something like that can feel. Maybe Harry would even give a tiny smile of approval, should he tell him. 

He won’t though. That feels a bit like bragging. Maybe he’ll let him see the new and improved apartment for himself, one of these days, once he manages to take him home. The hardest might actually be to watch him leave. He’d rather he’d just stay.

They part from the kiss and Harry’s eyes flutter open. Louis vaguely wonders what he looks like when he wakes up. 

“Alright?” he asks instead, successfully escaping his thoughts. 

Harry nods at him, smiling before he kisses him once more. On the nose. Louis’ eyes go wide, almost crossed from how close he is.

“Oh,” is all he can say.

“That’s for being sweet to me,” Harry explains in a cute voice, raising a shoulder in a most attractive way as he spins around and leaves for the door. He tosses his now empty cup in the bin. “Come on then, darling dear.” He makes grabby hands for Louis. “Time to yoga.”

Louis takes his hand, steered off towards the door, and he’ll just never understand these feelings that this boy manages to awake inside of him. It’s like, despite their differences, despite the annoyance and the fussiness and the endless moods, these times of day spent with Harry have somehow become his paradise. 

A paradise of aching limbs and joints it might be, of throbbing sexual frustration and a heart beating like a steel hammer in his poor old chest - but a paradise still.

 

 

Louis realises he has a problem three classes later.

They’ve kept on their strange level of flirtatious-but-mostly-kinda-sweetly-annoyed, kept treating each other a hand- or blowjob or just a good ole makeout session after class. Kept meeting by the coffee machine to share miniscule details about each other’s lives and Louis’ put each and every one of Harry’s details on a shelf in his brain labelled _Very, very important, precious information, please remember to bring it up in conversation to find out more_. 

Louis realises he has a problem, because Harry takes really long talking to one of the male attendants (they’re just like, four guys in total) and correcting his body with lots of gentle little touches. 

And then, some sort of utmost sharp anger fills Louis. 

Like when you run water so hot it feels like it’s cold. Like he can’t breathe and he has to grit his teeth, eyes shooting daggers but the daggers ricochet off of them in their lovely little bubble of giggles and murmurs, come back at full speed and stab through him and his itsy bitsy heart instead. (Wow.)

He doesn’t even know honestly why, can’t pinpoint why he’d be so pissed off about Harry paying attention to someone else. It’s not like they’re exclusive; it’s not even like they’re... _friends_.

Still, though. It still fucking hurts.

It takes the entirety of the class, takes all the people leaving before Louis can muster the courage to speak up about it. 

( _Don’t let them see you weak_ , is a mantra he repeats, over and over until the words don’t make sense. _Don’t let them see you bleed_.)

Harry meets his starry eyes with questioning ones. Louis realises he’s staring, he does, but he’s just stood taking in the beauty like every other now and again, he is. Trying to process just how badly he apparently wants this boy. How badly he craves that he wants him back, to be the only one. 

Jealousy. That’s it. That’s the emotion. 

Huh. That’s a bit strange. 

Harry’s top is a tad bit too short and he pulls at the waistband of his leggings with his thumbs, much too suggestively. “Want anything?” he asks him with a smirk.

Yes. Yes, he fucking does, but _god_ , what exactly _is it_ that he apparently _needs so much?_

It’s like white noise in his brain, and it’s like that fills his entire body. Louis doesn’t do emotions. He doesn’t. Do. Emotions.

“Come home with me,” he says, throat dry, still staring. God, what the fuck, why does he feel dizzy all of a sudden? 

It shouldn’t be so weird to ask that. He’s taken a dozen boys home and watched the same amount of them leave from anything between the next morning to one hour later. But he finds himself nervous, for some reason, lungs tight. Like that sentence meant more on his tongue than it actually sounds like it does free out in the air. 

Harry drops his hands. “Oh.” Then he gets that little minx smirk back on, runs a hand through his long hair. “ _Oh_.”

Louis doesn’t-

He just _doesn’t_. Right? 

He doesn’t want to bring Harry home just to fuck him. He won’t show him the flat, kicking underwear and empty soda cans into the corners as they go, have Harry ask “so where’s the bedroom?”. 

He won’t bring Harry home like he’s a nice, new toy. Home to his filthy, stained habitat of his filthy, petty life. Harry isn’t a toy. Harry’s Harry, and he’s so stupidly kind and lovely and beautiful and-

“Got an oyster card?” he asks then, head swimming. “Or I can pay you a ticket.”

Harry grins and grabs his jacket off the table; a new one, with flower embroidery. “Got it, thank you.” He bumps his shoulder when he passes him, and Louis’ body burns. “Lead the way, why don’t you?”

Louis might rush a bit, blaming it on infrequent public transport when in reality his tube runs every ten minutes or so, and he’s sure Harry notices that too when he checks the timetable as they arrive in between those ten minutes, standing with their shoulders brushing amongst all the people.

In reality, Louis wants to just go before he says something… _real_.

Whatever that might be. 

His apartment feels worse than he thought it did, upon arrival. 

Maybe it’s just because Harry’s there, so he’s hyper aware. Like when Zayn and Liam came over for the first time all those months ago or worse yet, when Perrie came over, because she’s a functional human being that actually cares for tidiness.

This feels worse though. Harry’s like that tiny white pebble among dirty grey gravel. 

“Ta-daa,” he announces lamely, toeing his Vans off by the makeshift shoe rack. He looks down at Harry’s chelsea boots, at his perfectly clean pink ankle socks. “You can, um. You should keep your shoes on.”

“It’s cool,” Harry assures, still looking around with big eyes. Louis’ sure that’s just polite but it makes his breathing restrict significantly. “As long as I don’t catch diseases.”

“Not that I’m aware of.” Then he frowns. “ _Hey,_ I hoovered the other day.”

Harry waves him off and slips out of his boots. “I’m absolutely kidding. I was expecting much worse.”

“Thanks? I guess?”

Harry smiles easily. “Sure.” He gestures forward. “Can I-?”

“No, Harry, I invited you over for you to stand in the hall all day.” He rolls his eyes and gestures wildly towards the kitchen. “Please do enter, your majesty.”

Harry curtseys like a fine lady. “Pleasure.”

“I’m sure,” Louis mutters as Harry walks into the kitchen, which is. Not as bad as it could be? Got some old mail on the table, plates and glasses, empty cartons of whatever. His freezer leaks for some reason. One of the light bulbs in the ceiling broke two months ago and he’s not quite handy or tall enough to fix that. “You still with me?”

“Yeah,” Harry says happily, which is such a relief honestly oh my god. “Nice tablecloth.”

“Thanks.” He got it from his mum. He hates it. Now he might just have to go and change his mind. “Want anything?”

Harry looks back with a haunted expression. “I’m afraid if I open the fridge it’ll just be half empty egg cartons and milk.” 

“You’re not wrong,” Louis admits and swings the door open to reveal, exactly that, but also some other handy dandy adulty stuff. “I’ve got bell pepper. Both yellow and red.”

Harry looks impressed. “I’m impressed.”

Harry is _actually impressed_. “Wow.”

“Yeah.” He looks around some more, at the half-dry, yellowy green plant in the window, blinds drawn. An unopened postcard used as a coaster for breakfast this morning. “Do you like, um, isolating yourself?”

“Did you study psychology?”

“I did.”

Louis leans back against the counter, hands shoved deep into his pockets because he doesn’t know what to fucking do with them. “I guess so. I have my moods, like everyone else. It’s nice to just shut my phone off and play some video games in the dark.”

“I get that,” Harry replies in a smaller voice, contemplative. But genuine. He points at the kettle, made of now-shiny silverware; a late night impulse. “What tea d’you have?”

“Uh.” He scratches the back of his head. “Yorkshire. And.” Opens the cabinet. “Yorkshire.”

“Hm,” Harry hums, “I think I’ll have some Yorkshire, if that’s alright.”

Louis smiles at him. “I’ll see what I can do.”

He prepares them tea under more comfortably easy conversations, Harry trying to ask him about video games though he doesn’t understand jack shit, then a minor full-of-smirks-and-shoves argument about whether tea should be had with milk or sugar. They settle for black as a good middle ground. Sweet bitterness, like Harry’s preference for black coffee (though that’s clearly scientifically proven to just be plain disgusting).

Sweet bitterness, like Louis’ undeniable crush on Harry.

Woah. _Woah_.

“So it, like,” Harry starts around a crumpet, wonderful legs tucked beneath himself in Louis’ much less wonderful sofa a few moments later, “it like plays out before the first game, but it was really actually made after the second one?”

“It’s really not that weird.”

They’re sat too close, probably. The TV is off but Harry’s phone is playing soft indie pop like Vampire Weekend and Arctic Monkeys and Louis’ heart is being much too violent, most plausibly. He might have to sue it, sue Harry Styles while he’s at it too, for all the emotional abuse and the heart palpitations. Sue the whole world because fuck everything he really likes this boy far too fuckig much. 

“I think it’s confusing,” Harry pouts then, poking at his tea cup absently. It’s been discarded on the rickety coffee table in front of them. “I mean there’s these characters mentioned in the like, chronologically first game then, that don’t even exist in the actual first game because the people hadn’t thought to add them. They can’t just _not exist_.”

“I think if you actually played Batman you’d appreciate a little anarchist shit not trying to blow Gotham up in every single game, darling,” Louis reasons. Harry pops his crumpet into his mouth with a frown still on his face so Louis pats his knee. “Yeah, I know, I’m smarter than you, it’s okay.”

“I wasn’t-”

“Sshh, yeah. There, there.”

Harry grins and shoves at his arm. Louis shoves him right back. It’s another full on shove-fest before Harry’s climbing into Louis’ lap, holding his wrists back and squealing.

Louis’ realises his defeat when Harry realises he’s got him pinned to the sofa and suddenly refuses to let go. 

His eyes are bright, seemingly astonished as he sits straddling him. Louis’ wrists are trapped above head and they both pant, their faces mere inches apart as the music switches to actual porn soundtracks by Cruel Youth. 

And Harry’s cock is just right there, is the thing. Louis can feel it against his and he wants him to kind of have him grind on him, have him use him to get off. He could be the only one coming and he wouldn’t even mind. 

But the weird thing is how the banter and the fake fights makes him feel other things than just utterly horny. Like his stomach flutters with fondness; fondness at the loose curls lying all wrong and messy atop Harry’s middle part, at his lips snatched between his front teeth in a big, childish grin, his blush slowly growing wider and into a deeper pink as Louis won’t tear his eyes away from him. Can’t tear them away. 

It’s just, like. Like they both really like each other. And that’s a nice feeling. A nice feeling to be so comfortable, so mutually infatuated, and god his eyes are so fucking green. 

Now, Louis has been blissfully single his whole life. He has. But he genuinely just wants Harry to stay right here. Wants to cuddle him and watch his favourite movies, after he finds out what each and everyone are and why. Cook meals when Louis would burn everything and Harry would laugh and stand behind him and try to teach him by guiding his hands. Sit at home or go out, look at records or clothes or board games or even, god forbid, grocery shopping? All those stupid little domestic things that would be made nice thanks to Harry.

And. And he thinks, maybe, kind of, possibly. That that means he wants the relationship status fact to change. 

Is that so weird? 

Yeah. Yeah, it is, but he’s willing, he’s pliable. He’s got Harry in his lap and neither of them are naked yet, so what the fuck is really going on in that boy’s head if this is the chaos in Louis’?

“You okay?” he asks, the song having switched to _Mr. Watson_. Harry looks caught like a deer in headlights but his eyes are still big and so intuitive, like he can already see everything Louis is feeling. 

_’What would I do without you?’_

“Yeah,” he drawls, and Louis feels his thumbs rub circles in his wrists, like it’s subconscious. “Just.”

“We don’t have to… _do_ anything,” Louis says then, eyebrows lined with concern. 

Harry’s own shoot up. “Oh.”

“If you don’t want to, I mean. If you want to then that’s another thing, just don’t think I took you home just to, you know.”

“No, no, that’s fine really, I-” Harry lets his wrists go, damn his blabbermouth. “I wouldn’t feel obliged to, or anything.”

“Just making sure.”

Louis takes one wrist in his hand and rubs it, mostly because he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, not sure if he’s allowed to touch. He’s not entirely sure how to touch when it’s not to get someone riled up. When the goal isn’t to get into their pants and then maybe hopefully never have to see them again.

“Wouldn’t want to hurt you.”

“You couldn’t,” Harry assures quickly. “Promise, you- you’ve been amazing to me.”

“So what’s on your mind?”

Harry immediately shies away a bit. Oh god, he’s such an innocent, precious little thing. “Just,” he starts, looks up at him shyly. “Thinking.”

“That’s a first.”

He rolls his eyes. Ah, there’s that cheeky grin. 

Louis lets go of himself and puts his hands gently on Harry’s waist instead, finally, and it doesn’t feel all that wrong. “Wanna let me know what you’re thinking, maybe?”

“Just that, like. How it’s really unfair.” His eyes drift down again. “How I really like you.”

Louis heart does a flip. “Oh?”

“Um. Yeah.”

“ _Oh_.” Louis feels like he might be trembling a bit. “I- why unfair?”

“Because you’re so...” He furrows his brow, looks pained to admit it. “Unattainable.” _What_. “So like. Unavailable.”

“Please do tell me more, psychology major.”

“Wasn’t my major, just. Whatever.” He tugs on the toggle to Louis’ hoodie. “You seem like you do this all the time, like I’m not saying it’s a bad thing to sleep around or whatever but like. I’m just a throw-away, then. A past-time.” He squints his eyes at him. “I’m just the side-hoe, really, aren’t I?”

Louis snorts a laugh, startled. “Harry! What!” He squeezes his waist, such beautifully plump love handles. “You’re not, truly, truly you aren’t. You’re the only one! I mean-” He looks off with his brow furrowed. “Well.” Pops his lips. “That went too real too fast.”

“The _only one?_ ” Harry prompts with an interested smirk. He puts his fingers to Louis’ jaw and tilts his head back. Dammit, fuck, what, why’s that so loving and caring? Why does that feel like actual _passion?_

“You’re just.” Louis breathes out heavily. Here goes. “You’re just, you. You know? Wonderful. Beautiful. I’ve not even known you for so long yet you me the happiest guy around. And I - fuck, please understand how weird it is for me to say this, but I’ve never liked someone like this before and I- yeah. No. I really, really like you, too.”

Harry’s eyes light up. “Oh,” he goes, reminiscent of Louis’ earlier surprise. 

Louis sighs through a smile. “Yeah.” He runs his fingers up his back. “I hope that was what you meant, because I’ll admit, I’ve never done this before at all.”

“Done what?”

“Admitted to a crush?” Louis questions rather than states, because honestly, what even is this? “Had the relationship talk?”

Harry’s eyes widen. “The relationship talk.”

“Oh, that wasn’t-” Louis immediately brings his hands back and slap them to his face. “Fuck. That wasn’t what this was at all.”

He lingers in that makeshift darkness for a while before Harry’s caring touch is prying his fingers away. When he opens his eyes he’s met with his equally as caring smile. “I want to be your boyfriend so bad.”

Louis is gonna throw up all of these emotions. “Oh my god.”

“Honestly. Please.” He scooches a little closer again. “But.” _Oh fuck._ “But, maybe we should take this slow. Get to know each other first? Like, properly.”

Louis’ heart plummets. 

It really does, _but_. It also really makes total sense. Why rush? He has the rest of his life ahead of him, after all. And he can probably prolong that time by something like three whole years if he just finally manages to quit smoking. 

So he nods. “You’re absolutely right.”

“I mean.” Harry smirks at him. “As long as we can still fuck.”

That makes Louis laugh, even though he feels tears threaten his eyes. Happy tears. Relieved tears.

Listen. Louis doesn’t do emotions. 

Only a little bit of emotions. Only a little bit of Harry-emotions, for Harry. 

“Yeah.” He grabs his hands where they’ve been resting on his chest. “Yeah, yes. Definitely. Uh, shit, I don’t know where to start. What’s your favourite movie?”

“Not now, you big div,” Harry laughs, squeezing his hands. “We can talk later.” 

“Fuck. Shit.” Louis feels high off of love all of a sudden, giddy. “Alright.”

Later. Harry wants to stay for _later_. 

Harry leans in closer, speaks in a murmur. His lips are so sinfully plump as they curve around the least enticing words ever. “It’s probably _Love, Actually_ , though.”

“ _That’s_ why you had fucking Bay City Rollers on your playlist!”

And Harry just looks so fucking in love then, Louis can only imagine what he looks like himself. They’ve got the rest of their lives ahead of them. “Yup,” he grins, and that’s that.

Then come the kisses. Lots of them. 

Louis ends up scooping Harry up from under his thighs, Harry’s legs wrapping around his middle as he’s carried off to the bedroom; by his own demand, of course, he’s some sort of romantic piece of shit like that. He asks if he’s cleaned the sheets in the past week before he’s splayed across them and Louis lies a yes but he’s working on it, he really is. Doing laundry is definitely up there on the list of things that make him feel better about life in general. 

If Harry keeps coming over like this, he might even get new sheets. Ones that lack stains of unnamable liquor and cum and that might actually get the scent of detergent to stick.

It’ll be fine. He actually, genuinely believes it, too. 

 

 

“Fuck, hear that, babe?”

He thrusts his fingers harder and Harry’s body arches off the mattress, shaky fists balling the sheets and mouth falling open. He’s so gorgeous like that, shiny and quivering, just how Louis wanted. Just how he’s made him be.

“Yeah.” A gasp rips from his lungs. “God, yes.”

“So pretty, love,” Louis muses, smirking though he’s kind of light-headed at the sight, still. 

He pulls his fingers out again to run along Harry’s length, curved against his tummy. It bobs at the tiny attention as Harry groans, but then he’s back to fingering him, using the precome as lube as his three skilled fingers thump into him. 

“Love how wet I make you. Soaking through your knickers.”

His knickers are in fact long gone on the floor somewhere, but they were in fact very much soaked through. Louis would be lying if he said it wasn’t one of the hottest things he’s ever seen. And, also, tracing Harry’s hard dick with his tongue through the rough, pink, lace fabric...

Well.

It was a good buy, let’s put it like that. They make a lot of those these days.

“Wet for your cock inside me,” Harry babbles, arm thrown over his eyes now to only have those sinful, red lips visible. His voice is more scratchy, from Louis’ dick down his throat moments earlier, but also whinier now, his own dick red, swollen and edged to his breaking point. “Wanna take you how you like it.”

“Oh yeah?” Louis curves his fingers and tries to find his sweet spot, deliberately missing a few times just to drag the fun out a tiny bit longer. He knows all his places by now. What makes him tick, what makes him scream for more. “You know what that is, then? Know how I wanna do you?"

Harry yells out when he hits the spot, thighs trying to close around Louis where he’s laid between his legs. “On the floor,” he starts, a whiny moan. “Just bend me over. Want to just take it.”

Louis chuckles under his breath. “Not quite, love. Not today.”

He pulls his fingers out, much to Harry’s unamusement, but he immediately comes shuffling up above him. He snatches the condom pack off the bedside table and Harry looks out from underneath his arm, looks as if the sun would be shining bright in the ceiling with this adorably cute half-frown on his face that makes Louis’ heart beat just that much harder because, goddamn, this lovely man is his.

He smirks at him as he rolls the condom on himself, wraps his arms around both Harry’s thighs to tug him down the bed towards him. “Wanna see your face.”

He throws his legs over his shoulders, because he knows he can take it, knows he can bend him in half and Harry would only ask for more, beg for it rougher. That’s what you get for being with a yoga freak, after all. Literally nobody is complaining (except maybe the neighbours).

He teases his cockhead over Harry’s hole, loose and open but still to feel tight when he enters him and Louis never wants it to be any other way. He kind of wants him gaping open all the time after all, and he doesn’t think that’s all too selfish, to be honest. 

Harry’s squeezing with his knees behind Louis’ neck, gorgeous thighs wrapped around him and chewing his bottom lip, so gorgeous, so needy. So Louis runs his fist suddenly along Harry’s dick again, hears his tiny gasp as he gathers the precome and smears it over his own dick. Natural lube. Organic. Then he starts pushing in.

Harry grips his arms and his mouth falls open, big eyes focused on Louis’ face as he sinks into him slowly, letting him adjust, folding him up a bit as he leans forward. It’s not that big a stretch, though; it’s not that big of a scary moment. They’ve been together for a little over a year now. 

Still. Louis can’t quite wrap his head around how this gorgeous boy lying beneath him is his to call his own, or how gloriously warm and tight he feels, how he groans like this is the best feeling in world. Louis inside of him. The intimacy.

“Alright?” Louis asks, because he always does.

And Harry nods. The look in those green eyes speak louder than words; _just start moving_.

So he does. And sure, it’s sloppy, it’s uneven, it’s like he’s a teenage boy high off of getting with his crush for the first time but even so, he knows it’s perfect. Harry makes it so. All those little whimpers and groans, matched with Louis’ own much embarrassingly high-strung ones bouncing around the walls of the bedroom. _Their_ bedroom. 

That makes it perfect. 

He leans down to nibble on Harry’s neck and feels Harry’s hand search between their bodies to then start jerking himself off, head thrown back into the pillows as Louis marks up his territory, groaning against his skin. He knows it won’t be long before they’re coming. Through his half-dazed mind so set on rabbiting his thrusts into the pleasure, he also kind of ridiculously looks forward to just cuddling up to the boy he loves and falling asleep, safe and sound. 

He’s exhausted. Must be all the wedding planning, it’s keeping him up at night. Harry has so many people in his life he calls friends and the place they’ll rent might just be too small to withhold them all. Harry says it’ll be cozy; Louis knows it’ll be sweaty and gross. The many disadvantages of a dreamy summer wedding.

Nice, though. He’ll give it that. It’ll be really, very nice.

He buries himself deep in Harry when he comes (Harry wants them to get tested so he can go bareback one of these days, because this boy has some strange kinks and they’re only fucking each other anyway, so), and he buries his face in Harry’s neck as he jerks through the aftershocks. 

Harry’s nails curl into his back and the hair at the nape of his neck to keep him grounded through it, though Louis swears he still manages to float off to another plane of existence each time. It happens to the best of us. It’s overwhelming to get to fuck Harry Styles, is all. He is a good guru, though. 

Louis pulls out and immediately shuffles down, throws the condom off and just barely makes the bin before he takes Harry into his mouth. Harry moans so prettily, huskily, and he starts thrusting his hips ever so slowly into Louis’ mouth. Then faster. And faster, and gripping his hair, and then he’s coming, Louis’ lips wrapped tight around his tip as he swallows. About a dozen beard burns and hickeys surround him on Harry’s thighs.

He wipes his mouth as he crawls back up then collapses next to Harry, who looks back at him with glazed over eyes. Louis clicks his tongue. “Yum.”

“Pineapple juice,” Harry immediately replies, as if it was a question of _wow Harry how do you make sperm taste acceptable, you just have to tell me your secret, me and Linda at book club are just dying to know_. Which it wasn’t, but. At least he’s cute. “Works for girls, works for me.”

“Right,” Louis says with a furrowed brow. “Logical.”

“Thanks, babe,” he beams, and Louis can’t help but roll his eyes, but then he also can’t help but peck his lips, because that’s just how dumb he is and Louis absolutely adores every inch of him. 

He might just have a go with that pineapple juice later. He switched over to just water a while back; no sodas, no milk, except for in coffee and tea because, fucking obviously. It did clear his head up, though he’d like to mostly credit Harry for that, to be fair. What would he be without him? 

Honestly, though. What would he be?

He snuggles up to him then, finally, like it’s what every day leads up to. Just them two, sleepy and soft in their white, bright, brisk and clean bedroom, legs tangled up, hearts beating softly, sheets comfortably warm and in an actual nuance of white for once in his life. 

And just like every other night for the past year and a half, Louis falls asleep, undoubtedly, the happiest man he’s ever been. 

So yeah. That's pretty cool.

**Author's Note:**

> YES THAT IS THE ENDING (ง'̀-'́)ง this was honestly just meant to be self-indulgent smut just under 10k like I really don't know how it spiralled like this but like I said, blame alex, then we're good. also BIG UPS to ann because I do realise that like a good 50% of what I write is things we talk about (firefighter liam anybody???) so ya love you both lol bye


End file.
